


Strings

by languageintostillair



Series: Strings [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Light Angst, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Smut, and is it really beneficial if it’s just a way to NOT deal with your repressed feelings?, but more colleagues than friends, very briefly discussed and very much in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26285926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageintostillair/pseuds/languageintostillair
Summary: “There doesn’t need to be any—anystrings. The sex is—it’s really good, isn’t it?”She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s good.”“Good.” He moves across the bed, and perches himself on the edge of it. “I want to do this again. With you.”(Or, five times Brienne leaves, and the one time she stays. But with a twist.)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Strings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980535
Comments: 125
Kudos: 459





	Strings

* * *

**【1】**

Perhaps it shouldn’t have happened.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have, Jaime Lannister thinks, if all the things leading up to it hadn’t unfolded the way they did.

If, perhaps, the _Westeros Times_ hadn’t agreed to let a fearless young journalist named Brienne Tarth pursue the story; if the story hadn’t been about a teenage girl, Sansa Stark, who’d been missing for two years already; if it didn’t seem like everyone—the police, the media, the public—had resigned themselves to what they thought was the inevitable; if Sansa hadn’t been from a once-prominent family, her father and elder brother dead now, and her mother a shell of her old self; if she hadn’t once been in a very public (and reportedly tumultuous) relationship with the son of another prominent couple; if one half of that prominent couple wasn’t Jaime’s twin sister Cersei; if Cersei hadn’t caught wind of the investigation and gone to their father; if Tywin Lannister didn’t own a controlling stake in the _Westeros Times_ ; if the _Westeros Times_ didn’t have Jaime on staff, plainly a conflict of interest no matter how brilliant a journalist he is; if Jaime hadn’t been instructed to _keep an eye on that girl, we don’t want our family dragged into any of this nonsense_ ; if Jaime hadn’t ignored that, hadn’t used his connections and his sources and his last name to get him and Brienne all the information they needed; if Brienne’s naive idealism and maddening righteousness and stubborn demand for truth and justice wasn’t so damn infectious from their very first meeting; if those first few days of heated discussions hadn’t made it clear that—just like everyone else—she’d made up her mind about Jaime based on his infamous, devastating exposé on corporate titan Aerys Targaryen; if that same exposé hadn’t allowed Tywin Lannister to fill the power vacuum Targaryen left behind; if he hadn’t gotten so frustrated with her undisguised contempt that he’d told her everything one night, everything about how little journalistic integrity mattered given the things he _couldn’t_ report about what Targaryen was willing to do, whom he was willing to exploit, and on what scale; if Jaime and Brienne hadn’t formed a grudging respect for each other after that; if they hadn’t built on that grudging respect with weeks upon weeks of hard work and fevered obsession; if they hadn’t, miraculously, found Sansa—going by the name Alayne Stone—hidden away at the Vale in the care of a former family friend, who had his own fevered obsession with the daughter of the woman who never returned his affections—

perhaps it wouldn’t have happened.

But it did.

Strangely, though, it didn’t happen till _after_. After Sansa had been found, after the story had been published, after their partnership had effectively ended. Despite all the late nights they’d spent in the office, even in Jaime’s apartment (though never in Brienne’s), in airports and train stations, in hotels and motels when they had no choice but to share a room, despite all of those opportunities they had to fuck, they didn’t fuck till _after_.

Once they did, Jaime could only regret all those missed opportunities.

He didn’t think they were going to, the night that it happened. There was nothing to indicate that it might. When he’d gone looking for Brienne at the end of the day, he found her packing her things at her desk, even more sullenly than usual. It exasperated him, to be quite frank. He thought there was a lot to be grateful for that didn’t warrant such sullenness. Sansa had been found, returned to her mother and her siblings, and the girl had said her captor hadn’t touched her beyond a single kiss. It was bizarre, but Jaime will take bizarre over the alternative. Sansa Stark was safe, and their story was a sensation. Well, Brienne’s story, as far as the public is aware. Conflict of interest kept Jaime’s name out of it, though it turned out that Jaime’s nephew hadn’t been directly involved in the girl’s disappearance.

 _Let’s go have a drink, rookie_ , he’d said. _To celebrate._

 _I’m not in the mood,_ she replied, slinging her bag over her shoulder. _I’m heading home. See you tomorrow, I guess._

_Come on. We got a better ending than we’d hoped. I think that’s worth one drink, don’t you?_

Brienne sighed. _It isn’t an ending for her. For Sansa. What she went through, what she’ll still have to go through, with her family, and the media, and the trial—_

 _Alright._ He clapped a hand to her arm. _If you want to be so fucking miserable. Come over, and we’ll crack open my most expensive bottle of Dornish red, and you can be as miserable as you like._

He didn’t have any intentions. He really didn’t. She’d been over to his place plenty of times, even had wine a handful of those times, and nothing had happened. Yes, they respected each other, trusted each other, revealed secrets to each other, had spent more time with each other in the past few months than with anyone else. But he didn’t look at her that way, did he? Brienne is taller and broader and heavier than he is, and to call her features ‘plain’ would be a kindness. Lips thick and wide; nose and teeth crooked; skin blotchy whenever she blushed, which was often; hair thin and straw-like and always tied into a sorry little ponytail at the nape of her neck. He’d thought her ugly, if he had to be honest. Even said it to her face more than once, when things between them were still rocky.

She does have astonishing eyes, though. Blue, stunningly so. There’s a clarity to them, and something inscrutable too. If he had to blame anything for what happened that night, he’d blame her eyes, even more than the alcohol.

It was late. They’d already finished a whole bottle of wine. She was already at the door, already saying goodnight. He’d felt, all of a sudden, like they were saying goodbye for good. Tomorrow, it would seem like they were no more than acquaintances; they’d say hello if they passed each other in the office, or on the street, but nothing more. It would be the end of their story.

Then, those eyes—

He’d kissed her. Impulsively. Pushed her right against the door and kissed her.

She’d kissed him back, for a few seconds, then pushed him away. She’d stood there, catching her breath, just staring at him— _her eyes_ —and then he’d kissed her again. This time, she didn’t stop him. Gods, it’s as if she was transformed. Her lips, plump and swollen, seemed made for kissing and nothing else. Behind her crooked teeth, her tongue, intertwining with his own. Her skin, glowing pink and warm to the touch, proof of her desire. Her hair, released from its sorry little ponytail, messy and tousled and making her look well-fucked before he’d even had the chance.

He took that chance. Took it right against the door, though she’d protested halfheartedly when he gripped her thighs to lift her up. He was strong enough; he’d show her. That power—that _need_ —his blood was singing with it, and he’d hold her up against the door for hours if she’d let him. He wanted her thighs wrapped around him, urging him, the strength of them squeezing his hips, tighter still each time he drove into her, again and again and again. He wanted to hear her moan in time with each stroke, in time with their bodies rattling the door on its hinges. He didn’t care if anyone on the other side heard. He wanted her to lose every bit of control she had over her own body, and he told her so. He wanted her to shake, to fall apart around him, and he told her so.

_Come for me._

She did.

It had all happened so fast. Before he knew it, she was slipping out the door, sooner than he’d have liked. Without even saying goodbye.

In a way, that was fine. No goodbye, meant no goodbye _for good_.

When he woke the next morning—alone—all he could think about was how badly he wanted to taste her.

* * *

**【2】**

He stops calling her ‘rookie’.

It does feel like somewhat of a pity to give it up, considering he’d so wholeheartedly committed to it since their first conversation. Calling her ‘rookie’ annoyed her, and in truth, he liked that it annoyed her. It was so easy to wind her up, to get her all bothered, all _my-name-is-Brienne_.

Then, she got used to it, and it wasn’t so much about annoying her anymore. It was something that was theirs, and he liked that too.

Until he didn’t anymore.

It’s somewhat of a pity to have to give it up. But he had to. He’d tried it, the day after their first time—pretended nothing between them had changed, besides the fact that she could no longer look him in the eye—but it felt wrong, somehow, to call her by anything other than her name. Now that he’s been inside her, he doesn’t want to call her anything else.

_Brienne._

_Come for me._

A week passes, then two. They have other stories and leads to pursue now, their own, not with each other. His work keeps him out of the office for too much of each day, and while he would have relished this at any other time, he finds he isn’t so pleased about it now. When he _is_ in the office, he just seems to keep missing her. Or maybe she’s the one avoiding him. Maybe she regrets everything that happened. Maybe she thinks he’s too old—forty years to her twenty-eight—and decided that night was just some momentary lapse in judgement. Maybe she didn’t think the sex was any good. Maybe he should text her, or call her. Maybe he should give her space. Maybe it was a one-time thing, for her.

He doesn’t want it to be a one-time thing. Twice, at least. Just once more, just so he can bury his face between her thighs. So he can stop dreaming about not being able to.

She avoids him. Maybe it’s for all those reasons. Or maybe it’s for something quite apart from all of that. Occasionally, he feels convinced that it’s because he’d told her about Cersei. It’s over—it’s been over for years and years—but for too long, he and his sister had…

He shouldn’t have told Brienne. It was an accident. He was frustrated, one night—their investigation seemed to be going nowhere—and Cersei was being insufferable about Joffrey. Her son had dated Sansa up till a few months before her disappearance, and may or may not have laid a hand on her during that time. Given his nephew’s personality and proclivities, Jaime wouldn’t be surprised if he had, and didn’t feel so inclined to protect the boy. Hence, Cersei’s wrath. _In hindsight, I’m glad he isn’t mine_ , he’d said to Brienne, without thinking.

If he hadn’t said those first two words, the sentiment wouldn’t have been particularly incriminating. It was the kind of thing someone might have said about an unruly child they observed in public. _If I had a kid like that, I don’t know what I’d do._ But he’d said, _in hindsight_. A long time ago—before Joffrey had become so much of a terror—Jaime had wished that Cersei’s son was his. Cersei had wished it too, or told him so at least. There was no love lost between her and her philandering husband, and besides, Joffrey looked nothing like Robert. The boy took after Cersei—still does, in more ways than one—which meant he looked an awful lot like Jaime, all golden locks and green eyes. Tywin Lannister, who’d spent years turning the other cheek, couldn’t do so any longer. Discreetly, and without Robert’s knowledge, he’d ordered a paternity test. When the results came back, it turned out Jaime didn’t father Joffrey after all.

In hindsight, Jaime’s glad Joffrey isn’t his. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have said a thing about it. He’d hoped Brienne would think nothing of _in hindsight_ , but she’d frowned at him, and he could practically see the wheels turning in her head. There had been rumours in the past about him and Cersei, though never anything concrete, and he’d hoped Brienne hadn’t caught wind of them. Still, the wheels were turning. Not knowing what else to do, he made some excuse and left abruptly, but it didn’t end there. In the days after that, this tension hummed between them—the way her voice strained when she spoke; the way she _looked_ at him, with those eyes—and it was driving him insane.

So he sat her down, and told her. How it had started when they were young, impulsive; how they’d become, in a sense, addicted to each other; how they’d dressed it all up in pretty words about mirrors and other halves and destiny; how he understands now that it was fucked up and he isn’t trying to make any excuses for it. But the fact is, their relationship had dragged on for years after Cersei had married Robert, and the only thing that had made Jaime leave once and for all was her infidelity. Not with Robert, he knew that was just for show, but the other men—the ones that their brother Tyrion had so kindly informed him about. When Jaime confronted Cersei, she didn’t even bother denying it. Made it his fault, for being so preoccupied with his work. For not dedicating his entire being to her, even though he’d been faithful to her all his life.

And that was that. Brienne knew. It took her a while to fully absorb it, but after that it really seemed like they could put it behind them. That was when they were just colleagues, though. Jaime wouldn’t go so far as to call them friends, but perhaps she could have seen past it even if that was what they were. What are they, now? Maybe nothing more than a one-time thing. Maybe nothing at all, because he’d told her about Cersei all those months ago.

Two weeks turns into three. Three weeks shouldn’t be so difficult. He’d gone longer without seeing Cersei, back in the day. He goes to a bar, gets hit on, finishes his drink, leaves. He downloads a dating app for the first time in a long while, matches with a few people, doesn’t reply to any of their messages. He stays late in the office, fingertips hovering over the keys as he types out word after excruciating word, but even that is no use.

All he can think of is Brienne.

He needs to know. To try. Just one more time—a second time. It’ll be enough, if she doesn’t want anything more than that.

 **Come over** , he texts her one night. It’s late, but he knows she won’t be asleep yet.

 **What for?** she replies, after the longest eighteen minutes of his life.

He types: **You know what for.**

She reads it, but doesn’t respond. Alright, so he tried, and he’s ruined it. He should have been more direct; less. He should have said ‘please’. He should have flushed his phone down the toilet so he wouldn’t have been tempted to text her at all.

Forty-two minutes later, his intercom rings.

Six minutes after that, she’s sitting on his kitchen island, naked, with his head between her thighs.

_Finally._

She tastes of the sea. Is that a cliché? She’s from Tarth, so she’ll probably think it is. So he won’t tell her that she tastes of the sea, and that he wants to drown in her. He _is_ drowning in her, gratefully. There is no need for air. Just the sensation of his tongue meeting her folds, and her hair tickling his nose, and his lips closing around her bud, and her thighs caressing his cheeks. Just the fingers on his left hand pressing into her skin, the fingers on his right hand entering her, her fingers tugging on his hair, her breaths quickening, everything slick, everything hot, everything Brienne.

She gasps his name, curses, moans, whimpers. She doesn’t hold back, or doesn’t know how to. Whichever it is, she isn’t quiet. He thought she might be quiet, but she isn’t, though he wouldn’t say she’s loud, either. Just Brienne. She is not the Brienne he knows, and is.

He will die here tonight, suffocated by her, and it would have been worth it.

Initially, he’d dared to think that they might spend the whole night like this. He’d already spent the past three weeks imagining her on every plausible surface in the apartment, with his mouth on her cunt. Perhaps they’d reenact all of those fantasies tonight. But then, after he’s made her come twice, she says: _Fuck me, Jaime._ Almost— _pleads_ with him. He never thought he’d hear such words from her lips, and with that tone. It seems there’s a boldness in her, given the right circumstances. Something that makes her say, _I want you inside me._

How can he say no to that?

Afterwards, just as he’s contemplating the possibility of fucking her again later, she sits up from his bed.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

Brienne looks back at him, and knits her brow. “Home.”

“It’s late.”

She turns away. “I’ll be fine. I drove.”

He stares at her back, that freckled expanse of skin, feels a sudden need to kiss every inch of it. “Stay. We can fuck till morning.”

“We have work in the morning,” she replies, as she stands.

“So?”

“Jaime. I—I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Something goes cold inside him. “Why not?”

She wraps her arms around herself, protecting her breasts, though he’d had his way with them already. She has nothing else with which to cover herself; her clothes are still on the floor of his kitchen. “It could get— _messy_.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he insists. _Messy._ He’ll make sure it isn’t, if he can fuck her a third time, and a fourth. Rashly, he says: “There doesn’t need to be any—any _strings_. The sex is—it’s really good, isn’t it?”

She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s good.”

“Good.” He moves across the bed, and perches himself on the edge of it. “I want to do this again. With you.”

“Jaime—”

“Please.”

“When you wake up tomorrow, you’ll regret it.”

“Why would I do that?”

Her mouth opens, then closes again.

“At least—” Jaime says, “will you at least consider it?”

She looks at the ground, and he follows her gaze towards her feet. She flexes her toes up, then down again, gripping them into the floor.

“Alright,” she whispers.

On her way out of his bedroom, she lingers in the doorway for a while, her hand on the doorknob. It gives Jaime this vague hope that she might stay, and if she does, he’ll make sure she doesn’t regret it. But she doesn’t stay. He stands too, watches her in the kitchen as she puts all her clothes back on. Her armour.

When he sleeps, he still dreams of her.

* * *

**【3】**

She considers it. He can feel her considering it for the next few days, every time he catches her eye across the room, every time they pass each other in the hallway. He can feel it when she leaves the pantry too soon after he arrives, when he finds himself squeezed in next to her in a crowded lift and he brushes her thigh with a finger. She flinches.

The next night, he tries again. **Come over.**

She does.

So that’s how it goes. He texts her, she comes over to his place if she’s free to. Always leaves before morning, no matter how late she stays. There are no strings, just like he’d said, in that desperate attempt to make her stay. To convince her to let him fuck her again. Or even to have _her_ fuck _him_ , if she’s ever in the mood for it.

 _There doesn’t need to be any strings._ He can’t decide one way or the other whether that’s what he really wants. He regrets it, now and then, wonders if she wouldn’t leave so soon after if he hadn’t said those words in the first place, wishes he could wake up to her beside him in the mornings. But he’d said it, and she’d considered it, and she’d decided. She’d been worried that it would get messy, he reminds himself. She was the one who said it couldn’t go on. And now she comes over when he asks—twice a week at least, sometimes more—because he’d said there didn’t need to be any strings.

Sometimes, very occasionally, she is the one to ask him.

The first time he saw a message from her— **Can I come over?** —he’d almost fallen off the couch. An hour later, they were fucking on that couch. And on the floor next to it. And on the bed after that.

It’s exciting, when she asks. She’s hungrier for him, and he’s more than happy to satiate her. But always, always, it’s **Can I come over?** She never asks him to go to hers. After all these months, he still hasn’t seen the inside of her home.

Still, he always says **Yes** when she asks **.** Or **Fuck yes**. Or **Please**.

More than once, he’d sent her a picture of his cock, already hard. He has no qualms about doing that. But he never asks why she doesn’t ask him to **Come over.**

Because the sex is—

The sex is…

And he doesn’t want to do anything that might change that.

 _There doesn’t need to be any strings._ Well, if that’s what it takes.

Then—

“I went on a date,” she says, when he comes back to bed one night after a brief trip to the bathroom. “Two, actually.”

“Two,” he repeats. _She can go on dates—no strings, remember?_ He sits himself down on the edge of the mattress, facing away from her, the bare skin of his ass smarting, somehow, as it comes into contact with his silk sheets. “Two men, or—”

“Two dates. One man.”

“Okay.” He swings his legs onto the bed, though he still can’t look—won’t—he’s too preoccupied with examining the curls of hair on his shin to look at her. “And you’re telling me because…”

When she eventually answers, there’s something strange in her voice, indecipherable. “Because this—if it goes well, we’ll have to… to stop. This.”

He meets her eyes then. “Is it? Going well?”

She glances away. “There’ll be a third date.”

“Will there,” he says, trying not to think about how that isn’t strictly an answer. He slides himself towards her so he can lie on his back, his head right next to where her feet peek out from beneath the covers. “He must be… nice.”

“Nice,” she murmurs.

Jaime tilts his head up. “You say that like he isn’t.”

“No. I mean—he’s—” She sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He lets his head fall backwards. “As long as it isn’t Hyle Hunt,” he tells the ceiling.

He wasn’t expecting to mention that name—a staff writer at the _Times_ , thoroughly mediocre—but he _is_ expecting her to deny it. Jaime knows Hyle and Brienne have history, from back when they were at university together. She hadn’t been very forthcoming about the details, but it mustn’t have been pleasant, because he’d overheard Hyle apologising to her once in the office. He’d also overheard Hyle asking her out for lunch, dinner, drinks, a movie; the man is shamelessly persistent in addition to being thoroughly mediocre, Jaime will give him that. Funny how he’d never overheard Hyle ask her out until _after_ they’d published their story on Sansa Stark.

Brienne doesn’t deny it, though.

“You _didn’t_ ,” Jaime says. “You finally said yes?”

She sighs again. “I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But he’s so—”

“ _Don’t_.” She flings the covers off herself, turns away from him, plants her feet on the floor. “Don’t do this.”

“Do _what_?”

“Make this into—” Regret, or restraint, or uncertainty silences her, and she reaches down to the floor to retrieve the clothes they’d left strewn by the bedside. “Forget it.”

He observes her as she puts a hand through one strap of her bra, then the other; has the urge to reach over and hook the clasps for her; resists. “I just realised,” he says, as her arms reach around her back. “You weren’t wearing this outfit at work today.”

Her thumb slides between strap and skin, adjusting. The _thwack_ of the elastic hitting her shoulder shouldn’t be so delicious.

“And you were wearing lipstick.” He glides a fingertip over his lips, feels for any residue. “Just barely. Before we…”

She’s silent still. He watches the freckled length of her arms emerge from one sleeve of her blouse, then the other.

“You came here? From your date?”

Her shoulders heave; the fabric of her still-unbuttoned blouse flapping with that movement. “That’s personal,” she says.

And there it is. That divide. _You can fuck me, Jaime, but don’t expect anything else. Your tongue inside me, your fingers, your cock. Nothing more._

 _No strings._ He was the one who’d suggested that.

“You actually changed,” he continues, recklessly, without quite understanding why. “For Hyle Hunt.”

“Jaime. Stop.”

“You could have slept with him.” _Him._ He’d almost choked on the word. “Instead of me.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t you?”

She looks sharply back at him. “What exactly are you implying?”

“Nothing.” He brings his hand to his cock—recklessly—starts tending it with lazy, unfocused strokes, though it can’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he’d softened. “Only that you don’t seem to have a problem finding your way into my bed. Even when there are others available.”

“We have an arrangement.” Her eyes dart towards his fist. “This—this doesn’t require—”

“You could have fucked him tonight.” Up, down, up again. “You could have tried, if you felt so—” she was wet already when she’d arrived at his door, past eleven; he knows because he’d had his hand down her panties before the door could even fully close— “desperate.”

“ _Fuck you._ ”

She stands, pulls her panties up her legs. Her blouse is still unbuttoned.

“He turned you on, did he?” His hand moves with more intention now, exhorting, though his cock isn’t being so obedient. “But you wanted to be _proper_? A third date instead of a fuck?”

She ignores him this time, and bends down for her trousers.

“Or was it him?” he keeps going. “No. He doesn’t seem like the type to wait, does he?”

She stands again. No trousers. She turns, seems to tower over him even from the other side of the bed; her anger radiates; her thighs, the definition of her muscles, subtle in the dim light; her nude cotton panties, oh-so-practical; her bra beneath her unbuttoned blouse, a useless thing. She doesn’t need it at all, and hardly ever comes to him with one. He hadn’t thought much of it just now—he doesn’t usually do much thinking, when Brienne shows up on his doorstep—but now, now he wants to reach over and rip it off her. He wants her nipples between his teeth.

He can’t stop himself. His hand on his cock; the words that tumble from his lips, how they bite. He wants her nipples between his teeth, her clit, not these words meant to wound and weaken, but _he can’t stop_. “You came here so you could imagine me in his place, is that—”

She’s on top of him. He’d barely realised what was happening before she was across the bed and astride him, her cunt so close to his fist where he’s still gripping himself. He’s expecting her to snap at him, to tell him he has no right to interrogate her, to laugh at him for putting on this ridiculous charade of trying to make himself hard again—for what? What did he have to prove to her? This petty—

She’s pushing his hand away, replacing it with hers. He can’t breathe; won’t. Her fingers are all he needs, wrapped around him like this; her cunt, cotton-clad, right there, so close he can feel the heat of it. His cock twitches at the proximity. She strokes him the way she’s learned how to over these past couple of months, the way that makes him throw his head back and arch and moan, and it must take seconds before he’s hard again, it must take hours, and then she pushes her panties to the side and slips his cock into her, just like that.

She rides.

It feels more intense than it’s ever felt before.

He tries to sit up, but she holds him down, both palms on his chest. He puts his hands on her hips instead, presses his fingers into her flesh, drives into her deeper. He still wants to rip that thrice-damned bra off her. Useless—useless and offensive in how it hides her from him. He wants to rip her blouse too, and her damn panties rubbing against the inside of his thigh as her hips make contact again and again. He wants everything in shreds. He wants to devour her, naked, whole.

He doesn’t.

He lets her devour him instead.

“I needed to remind myself,” he hears her say later, from somewhere far away. He’d come inside her, recklessly, and she’d let him. She’d asked him to. In bed, he always agrees.

“About?”

“About… what it feels like to—to be with someone.”

“It hasn’t been that long since we…”

“I know.” Too soon, she’s tucking her blouse into her trousers. “But still.”

Still, she needed to remind herself. Was the reminder Jaime? Or Hyle? Hyle, who would bring her to lunch, and dinner, and drinks, and a movie, in addition to bringing her to bed? Hyle, who would come with strings?

The thought makes him feel sick.

“Did you fuck him?” he asks, recklessly. Reckless and foolish. “Is that why—”

“No, Jaime.” _Zip._ “I didn’t.”

There’s a weariness in her voice that grates on him, that echoes in the room even after she leaves. But after that night, she doesn’t speak of any dates again, and Jaime can’t help but notice that Hyle Hunt keeps his distance from her in the office.

_If it goes well, we’ll have to… to stop. This._

They don’t stop.

* * *

**【+1】**

He has to go to Dorne for ten days.

_Ten whole days._

For some stupid story about the Martells and the Sand Snakes and normally Jaime might care quite a lot about a story like this but now he just thinks it’s _stupid_.

“It’s too long,” he tells Brienne the night before he’s due to leave. “It’s too fucking long.”

“You’ll survive,” she says nonchalantly, as she pulls her t-shirt over her head.

“You’ve spoiled me. I can’t go that long without sex anymore.”

“Then find someone else to sleep with while you’re there.”

It’s a casual remark. It’s so casual that it awakens this defensiveness in him, and he’s too quick to say:

“I don’t _want_ to sleep with anyone else.”

He knows almost immediately that he shouldn’t have, because Brienne’s hands freeze right around her ribs, the hem of her t-shirt still bunched in her fists. Slowly, she pulls the material down, smooths it out, then turns to face him.

“What do you mean, you don’t want to sleep with anyone else?”

“I thought the sentiment was quite clear.”

She frowns. “Jaime—you said _no strings._ ”

“I did.” That defensiveness is rising in him again. “But that just means—it means _we_ can fuck with no strings. It doesn’t mean I have to fuck anyone else, does it?”

She takes her lower lip between her teeth, then releases it. “I guess not.”

He wants to ask if she’s slept with anyone else before tonight— _he_ hasn’t, of course, and hasn’t had the urge to—then decides he doesn’t want to know. He’s pretty sure she didn’t sleep with Hyle, but maybe in the months before—

No. He won’t think about it. Instead, he’ll say:

“It’s funny.”

“What is?”

“This… role reversal. In a way, this time I’m the one that’s leaving.”

He thinks she’ll get mad at him for saying that, and maybe a tiny part of him wants her to. But she doesn’t. Only looks away from him, puts the rest of her clothes on, and leaves anyway.

Somehow, that’s worse than her getting mad at him.

Nevertheless, he has to go to Dorne. Dorne is hot. Hot, and dusty, and stupid. It wasn’t this hot and dusty and stupid the last time he was here, was it? This time, though, it’s hot and dusty and stupid enough that it takes far more effort than usual to focus on his work. Worse, he has to talk to so many people, formally and informally, and he can’t seem to muster the energy to turn on the charm. He scrapes by, because he’s still damn good at his job—and being damn good-looking helps too, especially where Martells and Sand Snakes are concerned—but when he returns to his hotel room at the end of the day, he can’t write. He reviews his notes, answers a few emails, but he can’t write. All he wants to do is take a long bath, then lie on the bed with the air-conditioning on full blast. And sulk. He wants to do that too. Sulking seems infinitely preferable to writing.

He sulks for three nights before he finally calls her.

After a few rings, she answers with, “… Hello?”

Some tension leaves his body when he hears her voice, even if that voice sounds disbelieving. “Hey,” he says, settling back into his pillow.

A few seconds’ silence, then: “… Hi?”

“Hi.”

“Um. Is something wrong?”

“No. Not really.”

“Oh. Uh—”

“… Is something wrong with _you_?”

“Um—no? Why do you ask?”

“You sound flustered.”

“I just…” She exhales. “You always text. You never call.”

“I call,” he insists. He definitely remembers calling her multiple times.

“Only for work. And we’re not… Oh. Is there something you need me to do here?”

“No. I…” He decides against completing the sentence. “No.”

More silence, then— “Um. Okay. Well—uh—how’s your trip?”

“Okay, I guess. Besides the fact that it is very hot here, and Martells are very—” No. He shouldn’t mention that. “Never mind. It’s hot.”

He’d already piqued Brienne’s curiosity though, because she asks: “Martells are very…?”

“Hm. I suppose you could say that they’re very… _frisky._ ”

Why did he pick _frisky_? Why is he talking about this at all?

“… Frisky?” she asks. He shouldn’t have picked _frisky._

“Well. Let’s just say they’re not afraid to make… propositions. Uh—sexually speaking.”

“Oh!” She clears her throat. “ _Oh._ ”

“I don’t know how they do it.” He switches his phone to his other ear. “They manage to keep things _just_ on the edge of inappropriate. It actually makes you feel rather flattered, in a way.”

“Oh. Well, that’s… problematic.”

“I suppose it is, isn’t it? If you’re not Dornish.”

There’s silence again for a few moments, and he can hear, distantly, the familiar sound of a copy machine. “Are you still in the office?” he asks.

“Yes. I have, uh—just some—some paperwork to finish up.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Um. I guess. But it has to be done.”

“Brienne Tarth.” He slides further down his pillow. “Always the good soldier.”

She huffs. “Whereas you’re off in Dorne being… propositioned.”

“Hey. If you were here, you would be too.”

She actually laughs at that. He thinks he can count on one hand the number of times she’s laughed in his presence. “Me?” she says, sceptically.

“Why not?”

“You know what I look like.”

“I do.” He really, _really_ does. “Which is why I think they’ll be interested. They’ll find you interesting.”

“Interesting,” she repeats, and now there’s something weird in her voice—a sort of _hurt_.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Huh? Oh. It’s nothing.”

It’s clearly not _nothing_ , but there’s only so much he can deduce over the phone, so he decides to say: “Interesting is sexy.”

“Sure,” she replies, and he can practically see her roll her eyes.

“It is. To the Dornish, and to me.” He sighs, and rolls over onto his side. “I could do with _interesting_ right about now.”

“ _Jaime,_ ” she hisses, dropping her voice to a whisper. “ _I’m still in the office._ ”

“What?” What does she— _oh._ “Oh. I was just—I wasn’t—”

“Oh. Shit. Forget that I—”

“I didn’t think that was something you’d want to—”

“No, I’ve never—”

Fuck it. She’s mentioned it already, he might as well— “Would you?”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Then, in a rush, she says, “I’ll call you when I get home,” and hangs up.

It takes less time than he expects for her to call back, which doesn’t mean that the wait isn’t a torture. In preparation, he’d stripped himself of all his clothes, and proceeded to lie on his bed, his cock half-hard already in anticipation. He has his laptop next to him, just in case she might be inclined to try that. He’d also fluffed and re-fluffed every single pillow, arranged and rearranged them, brushed his teeth for some reason. He’d even trimmed his beard, stupidly. Everything in Dorne is stupid, including him.

“Hey,” he says, when he picks up the phone after half a ring.

“Hey,” she replies. “Um. I don’t know how this works.”

“That’s okay. Uh—” he gulps— “do you want to—the camera—”

“No! Gods, no. Is that—okay?”

“Sure. Yes. It’s just—more talking.”

“Yes. Alright. Are you—in bed?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Um. Yes.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Well—my—I’m just in a t-shirt, and, uh—my panties.”

She could barely say the word _panties_ out loud _._ Hells, everything about this is awkward. They’re like two different people, over the phone. Jaime squeezes his eyes shut, thinks of the last time he was inside her. He opens them again.

“Uh,” he hears her say, “What about you?”

“Nothing,” he purrs, pitching his voice low. He wraps his fingers around his cock, starts to move.

“N-nothing?”

“I was… impatient. I was already getting hard.”

“Did you—” he can hear her voice change too, honeying— “did you get started without me?”

“I didn’t have to. I was getting hard just thinking about you.”

“Really. And now?”

“I have my hand on my cock. Wishing it was yours instead.”

“It is,” she says, and suddenly it seems true. “I—I’m there with you, in your hotel room. I have—” she stops. “I’m sorry. Is this how it works? Am I supposed to talk about myself, or—”

“You’re fine.” He closes his eyes. “You’re here, in my hotel room. You’re wearing just a t-shirt. No panties.”

“Yes.” He hears the rustle of bedsheets. “I’ve just—I’ve taken them off.”

“Which ones?”

“Black. They were—” an exhale— “I was already wet.”

“Good. So—you’re here. You have one hand on my cock. Where’s the other one?”

“I’m—I’m touching myself. I’m lying beside you, and I’m touching myself.”

“Where?”

“On my—” a gasp— “My fingers are, they’re on my clit. Going in circles.”

“Mm. How fast?”

“Slow. But I can—”

“No. Slow is good. We have plenty of time.”

“Okay. And you—you have one hand up my shirt. You’re playing with my—my nipple.”

He can feel it, between his thumb and forefinger, that nub of flesh. “And my other hand?”

“Uh—nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I can’t—” She groans in exasperation. “Hells, Jaime, I can’t fucking choreograph this—”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs. “Is it better if I talk you through it?”

“I—but I should say—”

“You don’t have to. I’ll just—I’ll listen to you. That’s enough.” He opens his eyes, resets everything in his mind. “We’ll start over. You’re here with me, in Dorne. In my hotel room. Just in your t-shirt. I’m naked, next to you on the bed.”

“I have my hand on your cock.”

“You have your hand on my cock. And I’m the one that has my fingers on your clit. Can you feel that?”

“Yes,” she breathes, and his cock twitches at the sound.

“And I’m—gods, you’re wet. I’m sliding my fingers down your cunt and you’re so wet for me.”

“I am, I’m— _ah_ —”

“I’m slipping a finger into you.” He speeds up the strokes of his fist. “Just one—”

“No—you’re—I want you—just my clit. Just—”

“That’s it,” he coos. “I’m right where you want me to be, Brienne.”

Her breaths are coming quicker now. “Faster, Jaime—”

“As fast as you like. Gods, you know just how to touch me—”

“I do, I—you’re so hard, I—”

He shouldn’t—he _really_ shouldn’t—but he laughs.

“Jaime!” she scolds. “What the hell was that for?”

“I’m sorry, you just—you never say things like that.”

“I’ve never had sex with you over a damn phone call!”

“Fair. Alright, let’s just—put me on speaker.”

“What?”

“Turn on your speaker, and I’ll turn mine on too, and just—touch yourself.”

“… That’s it?”

“Yeah. Imagine whatever you need to. No description, just—imagination.”

“O-okay.”

He can hear her set the phone on the bed, or maybe on a pillow beside her, so he does the same. Then, he closes his eyes again, and just moves. He imagines his hand is hers, or her cunt, or her mouth; he imagines he has his lips on her lips, her neck, her nipples. It’s not a single scene in his head—just fragments, flashes of her—but her breaths are one continuous melody, the way she moans his name, whines. She still says things she never says, things she would otherwise have communicated with her body—with a tightening grip, a fierce kiss, her teeth on his shoulder—but he doesn’t laugh again. He coaxes her instead, or says those things right back to her, or simply groans. Then:

_I’m so close—_

_I’m almost there—_

_Ah—I, fuck Jaime, right there—_

_I’m coming—_

When she cries out, it’s enough to push him over the edge.

His breaths take a while to steady, but once they do, he reaches for his phone. He switches off the speaker, and brings the phone to his ear.

“Hey. You there?”

Some fumbling, then: “Yeah. I’m here.”

“How was that?”

“Not as disastrous as I thought. Though I still prefer the real thing.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Me too.”

“But I’m not—” she pauses. “I’m not opposed to—to trying. Again.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean—while you’re in Dorne.”

“Hmm. They do say that practice makes perfect.”

“They do.”

“Alright. I’ll text you?”

“Yeah. Okay. Text me.”

After that, she goes quiet, though she doesn’t hang up or say goodbye. He should get up soon to clean up, but he finds that he wants to lie here for a while, just to listen to her breathe. Eventually, he hears her say:

“So this is what it feels like.”

“What?” he laughs. “Attempted phone sex?”

But Brienne doesn’t laugh with him.

“No,” she says softly. “Staying behind.”

* * *

**【4】**

She’s avoiding him again. He must have done something wrong, because she’s avoiding him again.

But he can’t for the life of him figure out what he did.

Everything seemed to be going fine. Better than fine. He called her almost every night for the rest of his time in Dorne, always with the intention of _trying again_ , and some nights they did, but a couple of nights they just—

talked.

Not… sexy talk. Just _talk_ talk. About their respective days; about their work. But not in the way they’d talked about work before. It had become less… goal-oriented. Unless, of course, the goal was just to talk. Or complain, or laugh—yes, _laugh_ —or even reminisce about their time spent investigating Sansa Stark’s disappearance, as trying as those months had been.

Was it because he’d told her, impulsively, that they should have started fucking back then? No, that didn’t seem to upset her. She hadn’t _agreed_ , not out loud, but it hadn’t upset her. He knew it hadn’t, because everything was definitely fine for the rest of his time in Dorne. And everything was more than fine on the day he’d come back. He arrived late in the morning on a Sunday, texted her to tell her that his flight had landed, and when he got home—

**Come over.**

**Now?** she texted back. **Or tonight?**

That’s when he realised she’d never come over in the day before. He was desperate to see her in the flesh, though. **Now,** he replied. **If you’re free.**

**Can I come after lunch?**

His stomach had growled when he read that, and he’d been tempted to ask her to have lunch with him. But something told him he shouldn’t—something that said _no strings_. So all he said was, **Sure.** _I’ll be good_ , he’d thought at the time. _I’ll unpack my suitcase, cook something simple for myself, even get some writing done._

He surprised himself by doing all of those things; perhaps he’d done them only because they were preferable to waiting. Nonetheless, it meant that when Brienne showed up around two, there was nothing to distract him from her. He was surprised that he wasn’t all over her from the moment she stepped through the door, though she’d seemed primed for it. Instead, he’d smiled, and said hi, and even offered her some coffee. She’d smiled, and said hi back, and blushed while she declined. Everything was definitely fine up till then. Everything was fine when he’d wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. Slow. Savoured her. Had one hand warming itself on her lower back, the other resting at the nape of her neck, his fingers gently brushing the skin there. That was all they did for the first ten minutes. _I’ve missed you_ , he thought, but didn’t say.

Then, he’d led her by the hand to his bedroom, where they helped each other out of their clothes. She was more tense than usual, he noticed. She kept casting her eyes towards the window, though he lived on a high enough floor that no one would be able to see them from the next building over. It struck him that she might have been looking at the sunlight streaming in, how it emphasised every freckle on her skin. He liked that it did. He guessed that it was making her self-conscious, but he didn’t want to lower the blinds and fuck her in the shade. He wanted to see the gold glinting off her hair, her brows, her lashes; he wanted to be able to pick out every strand on her body.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he’d told her, when she climbed on the bed. “Just… let me enjoy you. It’s been too long.”

She’d nodded, and laid down right in the centre of his bed, head propped up by a pillow, arms by her side. But she was still tense, still stiff, still casting her eyes at the sunlight.

“Will you relax?” he had to tell her, as he knelt on the bed with her thighs between his. “You look like a corpse.”

He could tell from her expression that she was considering kneeing him in the balls. “You just told me not to do anything.”

“Don’t do anything _except_ relax, then.”

She’d grumbled wordlessly, and started shifting uncomfortably beneath him.

“You’re just fidgeting, now,” he laughed.

She snapped her head towards him. “Tie me up then, if you don’t want me to move.”

Then, she clapped a hand over her mouth, and went bright red.

“ _Oh_ ,” he teased, trying to mask his own shock at her outburst. “Is that something you’re interested in? Because I can—”

“No!” She met his eyes in alarm. “Not really. Sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine.” He’d dipped down to capture her mouth then, nibbled at her bottom lip, relished her soft moan in response. Then he’d kissed his way across her cheek until he reached her ear, and whispered, “I want you in the sun. Is that… bothering you?”

“You once told me I was much uglier in daylight,” she said.

 _Fuck._ He’d forgotten about that. It was in the first few days of their partnership, back when the burden of his secrets still hung between them, and he’d lashed out at her. He lifted his head from her ear so he could look into her eyes, sapphires glistening in the sunlight. “I was frustrated,” he replied, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “And rude.”

“It’s alright,” she said, though it clearly hadn’t been. “It’s the truth.”

He’d frowned then. It was the most candid she’d ever been with him, but she couldn’t possibly believe a careless insult from so many months ago, could she? There must be a difference between being self-conscious, and… _that_. “I was wrong,” he insisted. “The sunlight—it brings out your eyes.”

She’d blushed again, a rosy pink rather than the bright red of before, and looked away. Thinking back on it now, Jaime wonders if that was what he’d done wrong. He was wrong to say he was wrong, perhaps. But he’d gone on to kiss her neck, and she’d moaned once more, and he’d murmured: “Just for future reference, I’m not opposed to being tied up.” It had produced a small _oh_ of—well, he’d like to say she sounded intrigued. But perhaps that was what he’d done wrong too.

Still, he’d savoured her that afternoon, just as he’d savoured their kiss when she’d first arrived. In bed, he planted kisses from her forehead down to her toes, paying particular attention to the points that made her whimper, or shiver, or squirm and say _that tickles_. Her freckles became coordinates for him to map all of these points. He discovered that he should suck, softly, on the skin right between her clavicles; that he should trace a finger right beneath her right breast while her left nipple was in his mouth; that he should run his tongue along this one bit on her ribs, right around a curiously-shaped congregation of light brown spots on her pale skin. He added all those discoveries to the list of things he already knew about her body, and which he performed at a much slower speed than usual. He knew, for example, that if he pushed up her flesh with his thumb, he could bring her off using just his tongue on her clit; he knew, as he drove into her with his hands holding up her knees, the angle at which he should keep both her legs lifted; he knew, when she arched her neck just to the left, that it meant she wanted him to suckle at her earlobe as he entered her.

Slow. Slow was the word of the afternoon. Slow and deep in the warmth of the sunlight. At times, he would keep himself buried inside her, not moving, doing nothing but staring down at her. She would stare back up at him questioningly, encourage him with her hips. He would withdraw from her, slowly, enter her, slowly. Her eyes would glaze over with pleasure, and she would reach a hand to cup the back of his neck, bring his head to hers so she could meet his lips.

It was all of the seven heavens at once. It made him want to say: _I don’t want to be with anyone but you_.

But he didn’t say it. So that couldn’t have been what he’d done wrong. When she left that evening, just before dinner, he’d dared to think she was happier than he’d ever seen her. Flushed with pleasure still. He’d kissed her again at the door. Just kissed her. He hadn’t wanted her to leave, but he’d let her.

He couldn’t understand what had happened between that day and the next. He couldn’t understand why, when he smiled at her in the office, she’d returned it so reluctantly. He’d asked her to come over on Tuesday, then on Thursday, and even on Saturday, but all those times she said no, told him that she was busy. He’d accepted that on Tuesday, and on Thursday, but by Saturday he was starting to think she was making excuses. He was confused at first, concerned, then angry, then confused all over again. It was worse than Dorne. He wanted to call her, but didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to hear her say _no, I’m too busy. Too busy for you._

And now, it’s Monday again. Late on Monday evening. He’s in the office, and so is she. It’s been more than a week since she’d been in his bed, and if he knew, somehow, that she’d decline again if he texted her tonight. Between his seat and hers, there are still a few people at their desks scrambling to meet their deadlines, and he looks past all of them to see Brienne’s straw-blonde hair hovering above her computer.

He waits. Writes, and glances up at her from time to time, and waits.

One person leaves, then another, and another. He can still see her sitting at her desk.

Then, she stands.

At first, he thinks she might be leaving for the day, but she has no bag slung over her shoulder. So he watches as she makes her way across the room, towards the hallway that leads to the bathrooms. He watches as she refuses to make eye contact with him. He watches as she walks down that hallway, past the pantry and the supply closet and—

He stands too. He heads down that hallway too. He waits by the door of the supply closet, watches to see if anyone else is headed this way.

No one comes.

She freezes when she emerges from the bathroom, and sees him standing there. But there’s nowhere else for her to go. Eventually, she walks towards him, looks intent on walking right past him with nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement, but in one swift movement he takes her hand, opens the supply closet door, and pulls her inside.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she says in a harsh whisper, once he closes and locks the door.

“I should be asking you that question.”

She looks to the side. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure. So you haven’t been avoiding me.”

She doesn’t answer. Just backs against a shelf stacked with reams of copier paper.

“You _have_ ,” Jaime says. “Why?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you in the fucking supply closet.”

“Where else would we have this conversation? You won’t come over—”

“I told you I was busy—”

“Bullshit.” He puts his hands on the shelf behind her, one hand on either side of her, and leans in close. “Until a week ago, you were never too busy for this. Not three times in a row.”

“I’m just—it’s just been a hectic week—”

“ _Don’t_. Don’t even—you’re avoiding me, and I can’t understand why.”

She still won’t meet his eyes.

“I thought—” he continues— “I thought last Sunday was good. You seemed so… _happy_.”

She exhales right then, and he can feel that breath on his lips. He doesn’t know what that exhale contained, but he’d felt that breath on his lips, and it’s enough to make him want to kiss her.

He does. Fiercely. She seems caught off guard at first, but then she kisses him back, matching his intensity—as if she’s spent the past week dreaming of this too—until she tears herself from his lips.

“Jaime—we _can’t_.”

There’s a finality to her tone—as if she isn’t just referring to the here and now, or the fact that they’re doing this in a damn supply closet. _We can’t. Not anymore._

“You want me,” he says, almost pleading. He was sure of it a minute ago, when she was kissing him back, but he doesn’t feel so sure anymore. “Is it me? Was it something I did? Tell me what I did wrong, and I—I’ll fix it—”

“No—it’s not you.” It’s a strange moment to realise this, but her eyes are some kind of beautiful under this fluorescent light. “I just don’t think—”

He kisses her again. Doesn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence; wants to remind her of how good it is between them. Without speaking the words, he dares her to tell him to stop. Breaks from her mouth to put his lips to her neck; dares her to tell him to stop. Fumbles to get her fly open; dares her to tell him to stop. Sticks his hand into her panties; dares her to—

“You’re wet,” he tells her, as he skates his fingers over her clit. “You’re already so wet for me.”

She hisses at his touch, says something that sounds like _fuck_ , and reaches for his waistband too. Soon, her hand is around him, tugging at him, and then her _fuck_ turns into _fuck me._

_Fuck me, Jaime. Don’t stop._

It takes all his strength to do so quietly. The shelves behind her tremble each time he pushes into her, which only makes him more determined to bring her to her peak. But he’ll do so quietly; he wants her pleasure, not her shame. He puts a hand over her mouth to muffle her sighs, her mewls; muffles his own with his lips on her neck. It feels so right to be inside her again; feels so wrong. _Jaime—we can’t. I just don’t think…_

_Don’t stop._

_Don’t stop._

He comes inside her again. Of all the reckless and foolish things. She doesn’t object, or get mad, but it still feels reckless and foolish. He feels reckless and foolish every time he’s around her. It was reckless and foolish too, when he’d taken his time with her the Sunday before. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done that. He should have fucked her like he always did, with that hunger for release, not… not slow, like Sunday. Still, if Sunday was to be their last time, perhaps he could have lived with it. It would have been a good finale, wouldn’t it? Instead, he’d lost all control, and dragged her into a supply closet, and…

She makes her escape without saying another word, and he can only hope this isn’t goodbye for good.

* * *

**【5+】**

**Can we talk?** the message said. **Tomorrow night?**

He must have read those words a thousand times before he finally replied. She’d sent it yesterday—Thursday evening—after three days of… of nothing. Of pretending the other person didn’t exist. Of making any excuse to be out of the office so he wouldn’t have to see her. Before Monday night, he was dying to talk to her, kiss her, fuck her, be with her. After Monday night, he found himself dreading all those things. Not because he didn’t want to do them anymore—because he _did_. He did, and she’d said _we can’t_. He didn’t want to hear those words again.

Then, she’d sent that message. He’d read it a thousand times before he replied, and a few thousand times after that.

_Can we talk? Can I tell you why we can’t anymore?_

He tries not to think about all the possibilities; fails.

It’s Friday now. It’s a couple of minutes to nine, the time they had agreed upon, and she’s already on his couch. He’s brewing a pot of tea for them in the kitchen. Taking his time with it, so he wouldn’t have to hear her say _we can’t_ , but there’s only so far you can stretch the act of making tea. He’s bringing the pot over to her now, setting it down on the coffee table. Letting the tea steep before he pours it out into the two cups next to it. He shouldn’t have brought the tea over to her yet. He should have waited for it to steep while he was in the kitchen, so they wouldn’t be sitting here watching it do just that.

“I’m sorry I’ve been… uncommunicative,” Brienne says, breaking the silence.

He grunts. The steam rises from the spout of the teapot.

“I needed some time to think. About us.”

He reaches over to the pot, pours a little bit of tea into one cup. Too light, still. He sits back.

“We’ve never really talked about this arrangement, have we?” she asks. “Not since the start.”

He tries not to flinch at the word _arrangement_. “What’s there to talk about?”

“About our conditions. About whether we’re… on the same page.”

“I suppose you’re here to tell me we’re not,” he says, eyes still on the teapot.

“No. I… I don’t think so.”

She’d said it so coolly, whereas he—his stomach feels all twisted up in knots. “I really—” he almost chokes— “I thought it was going well.”

“Me too.”

“I thought you still—wanted this.” _Wanted me._ “The day I got back from Dorne—”

“I—” she sighs. “It’s not because I don’t.”

“Then… why?” he asks, helplessly. “Will you at least tell me why?”

Silence.

“Is there—gods, is there someone else?”

“No!” She seems almost offended by the suggestion. “Jaime— _fuck_.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her wipe the back of her hand across her face. He turns to her and—

her eyes are wet.

Instinctively, he reaches for her cheeks with both hands. “Hey,” he coos, soft in a way he’s never been with anyone else, not even with her. “Hey—don’t—”

He kisses her. He wishes that wasn’t his solution to everything, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He can taste the salt on her lips; remembers how she tastes of the ocean between her thighs. But this isn’t like the ocean at all, and he wants to go back to a time when she didn’t cry. “We can fix this,” he says, between kisses. “We can—I don’t want to lose this.”

She shakes her head. “We _can’t_. It’s—it’s not enough for me anymore.”

Within moments, her words seem to diffuse in his mind, and he clutches wildly at the memory of them. Did she say—was it _it’s not enough for me_ , or _you’re not enough for me_?

“I thought I could—” she stutters— “that Sunday—then I realised—”

She was so happy, that Sunday. Happier than he’d ever seen her.

He was happy too; delirious with it. He’d seen a different path for them, one he hadn’t been able to admit to himself until now. He wants her in the sunlight. Not in the way he’d had her that afternoon—not _just_ in that way—but, well, picnics in the park, and days out at the beach, and trips to hot, dusty, stupid places that wouldn’t be so stupid if she was there with him. He wants to do all these things with her. He doesn’t want late-night **come overs** anymore.

Maybe this isn’t enough for him too.

“Don’t—” he tells her— “you don’t have to speak—just—” and he kisses her again. On her forehead, on her eyelids, on her cheek. Kisses that aren’t precursors to anything else. Kisses that are only meant to soothe. She winds her arms around him, and there’s something so tentative in her grip, tentative in a way it’s never been before. She buries her head in his shoulder, and he kisses her hair, her neck. Gradually, her breaths steady, and then he hears her whisper:

“Jaime—I’m—I’m all tangled up about you.”

That’s all? That’s the reason for all this?

Gods, it’s—

 _wonderful_.

It feels like the best thing she could have said.

_I’m all tangled up about you._

There didn’t need to be any strings. But there are.

It’s the best thing she could have said. It makes him want to laugh—and he does, gently, which makes her pull back from their embrace. She looks confused, and more than a little hurt, and he has to grab her hand and bring it to his lips and kiss it. He wishes kissing wasn’t his solution to everything, he can’t say he feels so bad about it now.

“Brienne—shit.” He kisses her hand again. “You should have just—I’m all tangled up about you too.”

“No, you don’t—it’s not just—”

“I know. You want more—more than just no strings. I think I do too.”

Her mouth hangs open for a second, then she wrests her hand from his. “Don’t do this, Jaime,” she warns, wiping at her cheeks. “Don’t offer me something you can’t give just because you want someone to fuck.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is that what you think? That you’re just someone to fuck? I already told you I don’t want to sleep with anyone else.”

“That doesn’t mean—I know I’m… familiar, and I come when you ask me to—”

“Seven hells, Brienne.” He stands from the couch, and walks around to the other side of the coffee table. “Did you come here to ask for more, or—”

“I _didn’t_. I wasn’t intending to ask.”

“Why not?” he frowns. “I get that I—that we haven’t talked about any of this. But did you just—assume I wouldn’t want more?”

“I—” She leans forward, and puts her head in her hands. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t trust me.”

She jerks her head up. “I don’t trust _me_. I don’t trust that I—that I…”

Whatever it is that’s on the tip of her tongue, she doesn’t want to say it. He walks over to her, and falls to his knees beside her. “Stay with me tonight,” he says, reaching for her cheek. “And the day after, and the day after that. Stay. Let’s get tangled up in each other.”

“That sounds messy,” she whispers.

“It already is. We’re—we’re messy people. We’ll screw up, and hurt each other without meaning to, but we’ll talk and we’ll fuck and it’ll always be better in the morning.”

“You don’t know that. That it’ll always be better.”

“No. I don’t.” He sighs, and starts to think maybe he won’t be able to convince her. “I—I just want you beside me when I wake up in the mornings. Is that so bad?”

This time, she is the one who kisses him. She is the one who brings her hands to his cheeks, pulls him into her lips. She is the one who guides them both to their feet, who walks them to his bedroom, her mouth still on his. Distantly, he thinks of the teapot sitting on his coffee table. The tea will still be there in the morning, thick and bitter and cold. But it doesn’t matter. Perhaps Brienne will still be here in the morning too—yes, he thinks she might be—and he can brew a fresh pot. He’ll fill those two empty cups that they never touched tonight, and they can drink from them together, with the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

They do nothing but kiss for the next two hours. It seems unbelievable, given their history, but true. It’s the first time he’s done this with anyone, even counting that slow Sunday afternoon with Brienne, though he’s lived four decades on this earth. Kissing only for the sake of kissing, for hours with no end in sight. Murmuring between kisses. Murmuring promises, and compliments— _her eyes_ —and even fears.

It’s okay to be scared, he thinks, and to say so. It means they’re getting tangled up in each other, doesn’t it? More than they already were.

When his eyelids start to feel heavy, he rolls out of bed to get changed. From his closet, he offers Brienne a t-shirt and pyjama pants for the night. He doesn’t know what she wears to bed, he realises. He doesn’t know if she’ll panic now, and run, just from him offering her some clothes. But she takes the t-shirt from him, then lets her hand hover over the pants for a second before retracting it.

“Just a t-shirt?” he smirks. “Sexy.”

“Shut up.” She starts unbuttoning her shirt. “I get warm.”

“Does that mean we can’t… cuddle?” He almost stumbles over the word; he’s never really cuddled with anyone.

She tilts her head to the side. “I don’t know,” she answers, sincerely. “I’ve never tried.”

They do cuddle—Brienne in Jaime’s t-shirt and her panties, and Jaime in just the pyjama pants she’d rejected—and drift off to sleep together. The next time he opens his eyes, the sun is just rising, and Brienne is—

still here.

She stayed. She’s no longer in his arms, and she’d flung the covers off herself at some point during the night, but she _stayed_.

He shifts towards her, and slips a hand beneath her shirt to rest on her tummy. She wriggles, but doesn’t open her eyes. He puts his lips to her neck, and she wriggles more, but still doesn’t open her eyes. His hand starts to move downward, just past her waistband, and—

“Jaime.”

“Good morning,” he says into her neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Waking you up.” It feels good to say that. “It’s a special service that comes with staying the night.”

“What time is it?”

“Don’t know.” He kisses her neck again, and slips his hand further down. “Don’t care.”

“Mm—I need to get home.”

He pulls his hand back. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not _leaving_ —”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” So much for drinking fresh tea in the sunlight.

“Fine.” She twists to face him, and places a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry. I have a deadline at noon, and all I have is a very rough draft.”

“Use my computer,” he suggests. “Stay here. I can help you.”

“All my files are on my laptop. And you _won’t_ be very helpful.”

“Why not? We work well together.”

“That was _before_ we started sleeping together. You’ll distract me, and you know it.”

Alright, so she has a point. “At least let me—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

She looks down to where his hand is slipping into her panties again. “Does it have to do with that?”

“… Maybe.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” She wraps a hand around his wrist, and lifts his hand out of her underwear. “I swear.”

“How?”

She bites her lip as she thinks, and spots of pink begin to spread across her cheeks. “Maybe you could come over later,” she says, a little shyly. “For lunch.”

“Really?” He still doesn’t even know her exact address. “You’re okay with that?”

“Yeah,” she smiles. “I think so. There’s a café down the street from me that serves breakfast all day on weekends. It’s pretty good.”

“Sounds like a date.”

Her blush deepens. “I suppose it does.”

“And… after lunch?”

She kisses him on the nose, and proceeds to clamber out of bed. “Like I said… you can come over.”

He watches as she walks across the room to where her clothes hang over the back of a chair. In the early morning sun, her legs seem never-ending, luminous. Then she pulls his t-shirt up over her head. _Fuck._

“Gods, you’re killing me. You’re practically naked in my room and you’re just going to _leave_.”

“I’m sorry.” She slips her arms into her bra straps, and hooks the clasps behind her. “I promise I’m all yours after twelve.”

“Until…?”

She pauses, her shirt in her hand. “Are you… asking if you can stay over?”

He shifts himself up, and props his head against the headboard. “I might be.”

She nods slowly, mulling over the prospect as she puts on her shirt. Finally, she says, “Alright. You can stay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I… I want you to.”

“Good,” he grins. “I’d like that.”

When she’s all dressed, she comes back over to the bed. He pouts at her—it feels like he can do that, now that they’re tangled up in each other—and she laughs, and leans down to give him a long kiss. “See you later,” she whispers, when they break apart. “I’ll text you the address.”

Then, she leaves. If he’d dared imagine, in detail, what it would be like for Brienne to stay till morning, this wouldn’t have been it. It would have been lazy, and languid, and neither of them would have left his bed till the sun was high in the sky. She wouldn’t have left before he was even fully awake.

But it’s okay. He’ll see her later, and she’d agreed to let him stay. No—she _wants_ him to. Tomorrow morning, they won’t leave her bed till the sun is high in the sky, and they will be so, deliriously, happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Now I return to my hiatus. Really.
> 
> Thanks to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat) for the handholding as always!


End file.
